“Ode to Broken Things” by Pablo Neruda

Things get broken

at home
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
It’s not my hands
or yours
It wasn’t the girls
with their hard fingernails
or the motion of the planet.
It wasn’t anything or anybody
It wasn’t the wind
It wasn’t the orange-colored noontime
Or night over the earth
It wasn’t even the nose or the elbow
Or the hips getting bigger
or the ankle
or the air.
The plate broke, the lamp fell
All the flower pots tumbled over
one by one. That pot
which overflowed with scarlet
in the middle of October,
it got tired from all the violets
and another empty one
rolled round and round and round
all through winter
until it was only the powder
of a flowerpot,
a broken memory, shining dust.

Let’s put all our treasures together

— the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold —
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.

In his “Ode to Broken Things” Pablo Neruda adds sentimentality and philosophy to simple broken
household items. He paints these mundane, worn items as memories alive as their owners through unifying
symbolism and repetition.

The first stanza’s use of repetition and parallel structure reinforces the futility of blame in the face of
destruction. The curious lines “It wasn’t the girls… It wasn’t anything or anybody It wasn’t the wind… I wasn’t
even the nose or the elbow.” A similar repetition attaches “hips,” “ankles,” and “air” to the possible causes of
these broken items. These eliminations of the perpetrators for broken things form a pathway to the answer:
simply “The plate broke, the lamp fell.” In other words, the repetition is echoes the ticking of a clock. And the
overall effect reinforces the message that nature gives these items life through good use and destroys them with
time.

In the last stanza, Neruda gives the reader a haunting call to action. He asks the reader to take these broken
“treasures… cracked by cold.” Again, nature is identified as the cause of broken items instead of human
carelessness. Then he says that these broken items are “like a river” and, like rivers, can be “reconstructed by he
sea.” Neruda symbolizes the broken things as rivers, which weld into the sea, which symbolizes the repair of
these items. Therefore, the breaking and repair or rebirth of items is as natural as the cycle of elements.

However, the final, paradoxical words are the most impacting: “So many useless things which nobody
broke but which got broke anyway.” The contrast between a nonexistent cause and the clear results suggest the
inevitability of the end of all things. Overall, last sentence sums up the senselessness and naturalness of
destruction and death of everything, even the still life.

E.E. Cummings: The Power of Structure and Form

E.E. Cummings has set himself apart from other authors by using different types of structure to add interest and
creativity into his poetry. He uses four different facets of form and structure which are: choppiness in sentence
length, spacing and punctuation, overall poem length, and shape.

Cummings uses a certain choppiness in his line length to add impact to the thoughts and feelings of the
characters he creates within his poetry. The reason he uses structure in this fashion is to give the reader insight
into what the character in the poem is feeling. Even if the poem is just about a leaf, that leaf is still a character
because he puts emotion into the leaf. He puts a story into each thing his poems pertain to. The way he does this
adds an extra element. In most poetry the poem has its basic character, theme, and its description of a situation;
The way Cummings chops up sentences adds feeling. “(Me up at does)” is a perfect example of this.

Each line is no more than four words long which

gives the poem a choppy effect that portrays the
speaker’s feelings about what he has just done.
Even though no words in the poem outright state
his feelings of guilt the message still comes
through loud and clear because of the way in
which it is written. Also, he doesn’t put in any
unnecessary words at all; each word he puts in
there is essential to the sentence and would be
illiterate without it. Our brains make mandatory a
certain amount of thought pertaining to each
situation we are involved in; We can’t just block
out everything even if we’d like to. The speaker is
just giving the minimal thought to the situation that he cannot block out. That shows how he’s feeling and what
is going through his head because in his mind he doesn’t want to fully acknowledge what he has done or give it
the proper amount of thought because he feels guilty for his actions. The poem is broken up because his
thoughts are broken up and uneven. Another poem that exemplifies how this type of structure works is called
“(will you teach a…”,
 This shows the speaker’s impatience. It shows a
frustration and a lack of hope that what he is asking will
ever be met. Often times, when one does have to re-ask
something time and time again your mind does begins to
feel like that poem; completely befuddled and unclear of
anything other that just the annoyance in having to ask
over and over again.

“if strangers meet” is a poem about two people that cross

paths with no previous knowledge of each other
whatsoever; only an arbitrary attraction that is not fully
understood.

This poem shows the strangers interest in each other and

through the uneven choppiness of the lines in the poem you
can see into their minds; you can almost see their thoughts
and the formation of their thoughts. Their thoughts are just
like the form of the poem in the way that it is interesting and
void of a certain rationality. However, to the characters of
this poem, rationality is not their main objective, feeling is.
Cumming’s has an incredible ability to make such uneven
lines in his poem make sense and connect a feel to the reader. “carry your heart with me(I carry it in” illustrates
this;
 Because the lines are uneven and do not complete
an entire thought it keeps you on edge. The first line
in the second stanza ends in “fear”; nothing else,
just the word “fear”. The line leaves you unsettled
and makes you want to race to the next line in hope
to learn more or to get some sense of closure. The
next line just ends in the word “want”. You once
again feel unsettled and need to continue on to find
out what he wants. By structuring his poems in this
way he is keeping the reader personally interested.
“if i love you” is a poem about a man deeply in love
that is also feeling love given to him from the one
that he feels so deeply about.

By not making the lines into full, complete sentences you can
almost see the character of the poem standing, proclaiming his
love; choosing his words carefully and really thinking through
what he is saying and the entirety of it. While the speaker is
proclaiming his love he is not concerned with small things like
if he’s using sentence fragments or if his grammar is correct;
His only care is his message he is trying to get across. The
way he structures lines in his poems is almost child-like in the
sense that his creativity has not been dismorphed or diluted by
social norms. For every profession there are norms and that
includes poetry. The norm for poetry is not to have such odd
structure; it’s to have in essence every line a complete thought
and a comma at the end of each line. Cummings breaks
through this and does not allow “regulation poetry” to be his
norm. Very few topics of his poems are innocent but there is
innocence in the ways in which they are written because of his
structure. Cummings truly uses this avenue of structure to his
advantage by giving the reader so much more than the
ordinary.
Another way E.E. Cummings uses form is by using
punctuation and spacing. He does this in a variety of
ways that are very imaginative. This also create a new
experience fore the reader. The way punctuation is
used in “!blac” is particularly important because
instead of serving a real practical purpose it serves as a
visual interest.

The words and the concept of this poem are really very simple and without the way it is structured and the
punctuation usage in it, it would create a feeling of calm. Without his influence of structure the poem would
merely be, “Black against white sky”. There is a world of difference between that and the poem “!blac” that he
wrote. By using structure creatively and using odd punctuation marks in places that they most certainly don’t
belong in a grammatical sense it creates more of a feeling of disruption and chaos. The poem is given an
opposite meaning without even changing a single word choice. If you were to fully analyze this poem without
all of this added into it by Cummings it would be the absolute antithesis of what he has made it to be: interesting
with a hit of mild chaos. “!blac” is the perfect example of how punctuation can take something so far.
“Cummings never placed capitals or punctuation marks at random—there was always some point behind the
deviancy” (Landles).
 In "you said is" he uses capitalization to make a statement. He
only capitalizes the words that he really wants to emphasize
and have an impact on the meaning of the poem. He
capitalizes the words “Looking” and “Nothing”, which are
the base words of the poem. He doesn’t even capitalize the
word “I” because although in grammatical terms, it is
considered to be incorrect, there can be more thought put into
it. Why capitalize the word “I”? It is not an important word to
the poem; it therefore need not be emphasized. “Looking”
and “Nothing” do need to be deemed emphasis. “Buffalo
Bill” shows another use of form through the spacing of the
letters and words, “and break onetwothreefourfive pigeons
justlikethat”. Spacing is used in an amazing way here. Your
mind reads the words and lines of this poem slowly until it
gets to the part where the words are crammed together with
no spacing. When you think about what the poem is talking about it makes sense that you should read that part
quicker than the rest of it because it’s describing something that is happening very quickly. Before I read this
poem I had never thought like this but while I was reading the poem I caught to it immediately. Your mind
speeds the words up without even making a conscious decision to do so. "Using the white space within or
between lines, Cummings is
able to regulate the poem's
tempo" (Landles). The overall
length of the poem is another
way that Cummings uses form
in a unique way.
One of the things that make E.E. Cumming’s poetry so worthwhile is that it seems as though he’s saying so
little but he’s really saying so much. Often times in literature it feels like authors drone on and on in an effort to
make a point. Cummings has the ability to cut right to the poem and make a blunt impact. Another poem that
shows this in almost an opposite way is his poem “(will you teach a…” This poem is thirty two lines long but it
only has sixty one words. This is important because the poem is trying to convey the speaker’s frustrated feeling
of asking somebody to do something over and over again. The poem feels so dragged out and long and is almost
chaotic to read because of this, and that is exactly how the reader feels.

L(a
Cummings is well known for making his poems into visual masterpieces. “Poetry and visual art grew, in
Cummings' mind…” (Kidder). The way he shapes some of his poems adds another whole dimension to them.
“l)a” shows this quite well. “This haiku-like poem has been described as the "most delicately beautiful literary
construct that Cummings ever created" (Landles). It almost feels as though you yourself are watching a leaf
falling. The poem is uneven and vertical just in the way that a leaf falls slowly to the ground. An excerpt from
the poem “i have found what you are like” shows this.

Through the way this poem was shaped your mind

perceives an entirely different view of it. You feel like
you can see the woods stutter and sing and you feel like
you can almost even comprehend the idea of the woods
stuttering and singing. Even though it is not describing a
realistic occurrence you still feel like you can see it and
it is real. Cummings really uses “visual thinking and
brings into poetry the aesthetic principles of the
painters” (Kidder). “a total stranger one black day” is an
example of using shape in poetry that is symbolic but
not completely on the surface;
 Even though at first glance it
there appears to have nothing
unique about it’s shape
whatsoever; if you look at it
closely it does have a shape.
The poem is shaped like a
square block. The feel of this
poem most definitely correlates
with the block-like quality of
the shape it as been formed in
because it is about a man having
an issue and dealing with it.
There is very little
sentimentality or sensitivity in
the words of this poem; the
poem is like a square block in
this sense. His “concrete shapes
express multidimensional
perspectives” (Parekh).

Buffalo Bill's

It is E.E. Cummings’ intent with this poem is to create a mild state of confusion in the reader. It is not his
intention for the reader to fully understand this poem or to be able to draw one direct conclusion by the end of
this. This is not only shown through the words and topic of the poem, it is also shown through the way the poem
looks. The poem is outright visually confusing. Your eyes are moving in different direction at different lengths
just in reading it. The hidden underlying themes of this poem are expressed through this. He really brings “the
excitement, the originality, the accuracy of vision, and the fun that poetry ought to supply” (Chinitz). Many
poets write poetry and hope that their words and ideas set them apart from the work of all the other poets out
there.
E.E. Cummings not only does this but he also adds an entirely new way of feeling into his poetry using form
and structure. “Above all, Cummings is a playful poet, with every element of language and of poetic technique,
from orthography to syntax to form, making the stuff of his play” (Chinitz). He plays with choppy lines, odd
punctuation and spacing, length of entire poems, and shape. He truly has set him apart by really using the one
thing that all poems ever put forth have in common: structure.

Works Cited

Chinitz, David. “Cumming’s Challenge to Academic Standards”. (1996). (accessed on February 23).

Landles, Iaian. “An Analysis of Two Poems by E.E.Cummings”. (2001). (accessed on March 1).

Parekh, Pushp. “NATURE IN THE POETRY OF E. E. CUMMINGS” (1994). (accessed on February 27).

Rushworth M. Kidder, in his E. E. Cummings: An Introduction to the Poetry, Columbia University Press, 1979,
275 p. Reproduced by permission. (accessed on March 2).

https://letterpile.com/poetry/EE-Cummings-The-Power-of-Structure-and-Form

OCD Lyrics
Neil Hillborn

The first time I saw her...

Everything in my head went quiet.
All the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.
When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.
Even in bed, I’m thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips..
Or the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek.
I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.
On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or fucking
talking to her...
But she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times if it was
Wednesday.
She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I
definitely locked the door eighteen times.
I’d always watch her mouth when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off,
and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and
off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.
Some mornings I’d start kissing her goodbye but she’d just leave cause I was
just making her late for work...
When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking...
When she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line.
She told me that I was taking up too much of her time.
Last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a
mistake, but...
How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touched her?
Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.
I can’t – I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.
Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars...
And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..
How she turns shower knobs like she's opening a safe.
How she blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out…
Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.
I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once — he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
I want her back so bad...
I leave the door unlocked.
I leave the lights on.
Summary
The speaker stands in the woods, considering a fork in the road. Both ways are equally worn and equally
overlaid with un-trodden leaves. The speaker chooses one, telling himself that he will take the other another
day. Yet he knows it is unlikely that he will have the opportunity to do so. And he admits that someday in the
future he will recreate the scene with a slight twist: He will claim that he took the less-traveled road.

Form

“The Road Not Taken” consists of four stanzas of five lines. The rhyme scheme is ABAAB; the rhymes are
strict and masculine, with the notable exception of the last line (we do not usually stress the -ence of difference).
There are four stressed syllables per line, varying on an iambic tetrameter base.

Commentary

This has got to be among the best-known, most-often-misunderstood poems on the planet. Several generations
of careless readers have turned it into a piece of Hallmark happy-graduation-son, seize-the-future puffery.
Cursed with a perfect marriage of form and content, arresting phrase wrought from simple words, and resonant
metaphor, it seems as if “The Road Not Taken” gets memorized without really being read. For this it has died
the cliché’s un-death of trivial immortality.

But you yourself can resurrect it from zombie-hood by reading it—not with imagination, even, but simply with
accuracy. Of the two roads the speaker says “the passing there / Had worn them really about the same.” In fact,
both roads “that morning lay / In leaves no step had trodden black.” Meaning: Neither of the roads is less
traveled by. These are the facts; we cannot justifiably ignore the reverberations they send through the easy
aphorisms of the last two stanzas.

One of the attractions of the poem is its archetypal dilemma, one that we instantly recognize because each of us
encounters it innumerable times, both literally and figuratively. Paths in the woods and forks in roads are
ancient and deep-seated metaphors for the lifeline, its crises and decisions. Identical forks, in particular,
symbolize for us the nexus of free will and fate: We are free to choose, but we do not really know beforehand
what we are choosing between. Our route is, thus, determined by an accretion of choice and chance, and it is
impossible to separate the two.

This poem does not advise. It does not say, “When you come to a fork in the road, study the footprints and take
the road less traveled by” (or even, as Yogi Berra enigmatically quipped, “When you come to a fork in the road,
take it”). Frost’s focus is more complicated. First, there is no less-traveled road in this poem; it isn’t even an
option. Next, the poem seems more concerned with the question of how the concrete present (yellow woods,
grassy roads covered in fallen leaves) will look from a future vantage point.

http://www.sparknotes.com/poetry/frost/section7.rhtml
 "Annabel Lee" is one of Edgar Allan Poe's most-
famous poems.

Was it autobiographical?

The story is told that a young woman - named

Annabel Lee - was part of a wealthy Charleston
family. She fell in love with a Virginia sailor
who was stationed in that South Carolina port
town. The navy man wanted to marry the
Southern girl.

However ... Annabel Lee's father did not approve

of her suitor. Not only that ... he absolutely
forbade his daughter to even see him.

Love prevailed, however ... at least for a time ...

and the couple met in a local cemetery (where
they thought no one would spot them). One day
the suspicious father followed Annabel Lee.
When he realized that his daughter had disobeyed
him, he had her locked inside her bedroom.

The sailor had no choice. He could no longer spend time with his great love.

Soon thereafter, Annabel Lee contracted yellow fever and died of the dreaded sickness.

After the young sailor learned that his love had died, he returned to Charleston to see her one last time. It did
him no good, however.

Annabel Lee's father refused to even let the young man know where his daughter would be buried. He had
grave sites in the family plot "dug up," to keep his daughter's friend from learning the exact location of her
remains.

That cruelty caused the young Virginian to grieve over the entire plot.

"Annabel Lee" - the poem - sounds like the story behind the Charleston legend. One of two things could be
possible:

 Poe heard the story when he was in the Army and stationed at Fort Moultrie (which is located on
Sullivan Island, near Charleston); or

 The story is about Poe himself. Local lore has it that he and a real girl, named Annabel Lee Ravenel,
were close friends during Poe's tour of duty at Ft. Moultrie (during 1827-28). If this story is true, the
young man who was turned-away - by the prominent Mr. Ravenel - was the future writer of the poem.

We will never know the real story behind this famous work. As far as anyone knows, Poe left no notes about it.
 Mga Basang Unan ni Juan Miguel Severo

Noong iwan mo ako nang walang pasabi at pangako ng pagbabalik umiyak ako buong gabi. Umiyak ako nang
sobrang tindi, kinailangan kong ibilad sa araw ang unan ko kinabukasan. Ang sarap pala sa pakiramdam ng
patulugin ka ng sarili mong pag-iyak. Naisip ko, hindi pinakuluang dahon ng bayabas o alak ang sagot sa
ganitong klaseng sakit. Luha ang pinaka-mabisang panglanggas sa sugat ng puso.

Kaya inaraw-araw ko ito. Sinisimulan at tinatapos ko ang araw na ginagamot ang mga sugat na iniwan mo.
Binabalikan ko lahat ng alaala at hinahanap kung saan silang lahat bumaon sa puso ko. Nakakatawa. Akala ko
noon, kung dumating man ang panahon na ‘to, puro mga away at hindi natin pagkakasunduan ang mga sugat
na iintindihin ko. Na sila ang mahirap gamutin. Na sila ang, kahit ilang balde na ng luha ang aking pigain mula
sa mata ko, magdurugo pa rin.

Pero mas nagdurugo ako para sa mga tawa mo. Mas nagdurugo ako sa mga patawa mo. Mas nagdurugo ako
sa mga yakap mo. Sa kung paanong ang balat ko ay parang nalalapnos kapag dahan-dahan mo akong
hinahaplos at kung paanong ang hininga ko ay nahahapo at kinakapos kapag niyayapos kita. Nadurog ako
noong gabing umalis ka, pero mas nagdurugo ako sa unang gabi na pinili mong manatili. Nadurog ako noong
gabing sinabi mong ayaw mo na, pero mas nagdurugo ako sa gabing tinanong mo ako kung puwede pa ba.
Nadurog ako noong gabing tinalikuran mo ako, pero mas nagdurugo ako na noong pagtalikod ko, nandoon ka
pa. Nadurog ako noong sinabi mong hindi mo na ako mahal, at nagdurugo ako, at nagdurugo ako, at
nadudurog at nadudurog at nagdurugo pa rin ako sa alaala na ikaw pa ang mas naunang magsabi ng “Mahal
kita.”
Mahal. Kita.

Kung titignan ko nang maigi ang mga salitang sinulat ng lahat ng mga sugat na naiwan mo, yang dalawang
yan ang mababasa ko. Mahal. Kita. At sa inaraw-araw ng pagbibilad-unan ko, nagmamahid na sila. Mahal.
Kita. At sa dami ng luha na pinanglanggas ko rito, naglalangib na sila. Mahal. Kita. At sa tagal niyang kumikirot
dito sa dibdib ko, medyo nakakasanay na. Mahal. Kita. At sa tagal ng panahon na ginugol ko sa gamutan,
sigurado magsasara na sila. Magsasara at magiging pilat na paulit-ulit kong mababasa at ang parati lang
sasabihin ay “Mahal kita.”

Mahal, kung magkita tayong muli at tanungin mo ako uli kung puwede pa ba, ang hihilingin ko lang sa’yo ay
mga bagong unan. Dahil lahat ng akin ay ‘kala mo naulanan dahil lahat sila ay akin nang naiyakan ng mga
kwento natin at nag-iwan ng marka sa kanila at ayaw ko na. Ayaw ko nang matulog sa unang basa at malunod
sa pagtulog sa alaala na mahal kita. Mahal nga pala kita. Mahal pa rin pala kita. At sa wakas, hindi na kasing
sakit ng dati, pero mahal, masakit pa.
Corregidor, Bataan
Juan Miguel Severo

At para ito sa mga taong pakiramdam nila, hindi lang ‘yung kanilang mga minamahal ang kailangan nilang
pakisamahan, kung hindi pati 'yung kanilang mga nakaraan din.

Nagpunta akong mag-isa sa Bataan. Inisa-isa ang mga marka ng martsa ng kamatayan. Umakyat sa, tinungo ang
dambana ng kagitingan. Nandoon, nakita ko, isang grupo ng mga Hapon ang namamasyal at ako lang ang nag-
iisang Pilipino.

Ano kaya ang nasa isip nila habang kinukuwento sa kanila kung paanong pinatay ng kanilang mga ninuno ang
mga tao na minsang tumayo sa lupa na kanilang nilalakaran? Kasi ako, siya lang ang nasa isip ko.

Nasa isip ko kung gaano karaming beses nang natisod ang dila ko sa mga kadena at lubid na naiwan niyang
nakabuhol sa mga labi ng taong mahal ko. Iniisip ko kung gaano karaming beses nang nasalubsob ang mga
kamay ko sa mga bubog na naiwan niyang nakakalat sa puso nito. Gaano karaming bomba pa kaya ang
posibleng naiwan niya na nakabaon sa balat na siyang tahanan ko na ngayon? At ilang museo pa ba ang
kailangan kong makabisa para lang maalala na nangyari nga pala ito, hindi ako tanga, alam ko, matagal nang
tapos ang gera pero minsan kasi nalilimutan ko pa. Nangyari nga pala ito, nangyari nga pala sila.

Sa Corregidor, isang grupo ng magkakaibigan ang nakasabay kong maglibot sa mga natitira nitong pader at sa
mga bato na nakahandusay sa sahig na akala mo ba’y doon talaga sila nabibilang at alam naman nating lahat na
minsan silang itinakda upang magsilbing panangga, napakahilig nating bumisita at magpabalik-balik sa mga
pruweba ng minsan nating pagkawasak.

Ano kaya ang nasa isipan ng mga taong ‘to at bakit panay kuha nila sa sarili nilang mga litrato? Nakangiti, na
akala mo ba’y hindi kuwento ng pagguho ang kanilang naririnig. Kasi ako, siya pa rin ang nasa isip ko. Na
hindi ako ang unang dumaong sa kanyang dibdib, na hindi ako ang unang sumakop sa kanyang katawan. Hindi
siya para sa akin ang unang nakipaglaban. Hindi niya sa akin unang naranasan ang kalayaan. Napansin ko na ‘to
noon pa. Napakahilig nating bumisita at magpabalik-balik sa mga pruweba ng minsan nating pagkawasak.
Napakahilig mag-iwan ng mga paalala, pananda, monumento at dambana para sa mga pagkakataong tayo ay
nabigo.

Uukit ako ng rebulto para sa sarili kong pagsuko, para sayo na minsang dumaan, nanirahan at nakipagdigmaan
sa lupain na siyang kasalukuyan ko. Isinusuko ko na ang nakaraan irereespeto ko ang bawat patak ng dugo na
dumanak. Ang bawat paalala, pananda, monumento at dambana na kanyang itinayo na alaala ng inyong
pagkabigo. Buhay ay langit sa piling niya at habulin man kami ng impyerno ay pipilitin naming huwag sumuko.

Hawak ko ang kamay niya sa kaliwa at pluma naman dito sa kanan. Aking aalagaan ang mga alaala mo nang
walang galit, puro aral. Ganito kaming iibig, pipiliin parati ang magmahal, magsusulat kami ng bagong
kuwento, magtatayo kami ng mga bantayog na sapat ang taas para sa bawat maliliit na tagumpay. Ganito
kaming iibig pipiliin parati ang magmahal. Nang sa gan’on kung balang araw ay may pumasyal sa aming
kasaysayan at bumisita sa aming dambana o guho nakatityak ako, kung meron mang pumasyal sa aming
dambana o guho nakatityak akong pinili naming magmahal at hinding-hindi kami nabigo.
“Ang Huling Tula na Isusulat ko Para Sayo” ni Juan
Miguel Severo.
Marunong akong magsulat. Kaya ko ring tumula, pero ang nawala sa akin ngayon ay yung mga salita upang
ilarawan kung anuman ang nararamdaman ko ngayon. At itong maikling video na ito na nakita ko lamang na
nakapaskil sa Facebook ang sumuma sa kinikimkim kong pakiramdam.

Nais ko ibahagi ang maikling video na ito sa kahit sinong masasaling ng mga salitang ginamit dito.

Wala akong kahit isang pagmamay-ari dito, ang tanging pagmamay-ari ko lamang ay ang parehong damdamin
na sinisigaw ng bawat salita na binigkas.

…Dahil minsan may mga tao na mas kayang isigaw ang hindi ko maibulong man lamang…

Pangako ‘yan, at totoo.

Hindi ko alam kung magiging ga’no kahaba

kung kasya ba sa isang pyesa,

ilang pahina,

ilang minuto ang itatagal at ihahaba nito

kaya posibleng hindi ko agad makabisado.

Pero pangako ‘yan…

Ito na, ang huling tula na isusulat ko para sa ‘yo.

Itaga mo ‘to sa bato

abutin man ako ng umaga dito

hindi ko ipipikit ang mga matang ito.

uubusin ko ang lahat ng salita na posibleng tugma ng pangalan mo

o ng anumang tawag ko sa’yo,

(mahal, sinta, irog, pangga, babe, beh, bae, asawa ko, mine? wifey, bae, kulet, kapal, k*pal, walangya, p*ki,
p*king *na ka)

ano pa ba?

Wala akong pakialam kung abutin ako ng ilang talata dito,

pero hindi ko na pwedeng patirahin lang,

dito sa loob ko, ang mga salitang ito.

Kaya pangako…

Ito na, ang huling tula na isusulat ko para sa ‘yo.

Magsisimula ako sa umpisa,

sa kung paanong nginitian mo ako

at tinanong kung saan ako nakatira

hindi mo nga pinansin, ang mga agiw sa dingding.

Hindi ka nga natinag sa ipis na biglang dumating sa iyong pagbisita.

Pero hindi mo rin man lang din tinignan ang mga libro na nasa tabi ng kama ko, natutulog din.

At tangi ko noong kapiling.

Magsisimula ako sa umpisa,

sa kung paanong niyakap mo ako noong sabihin ko sa’yong, “Mahal Kita…”

Sa kung paanong hinalikan mo ako sa noo sabay sabi ng:

“Mahalaga ka…”

At ako naman ‘tong si tanga,

tuwang-tuwa,

dahil hindi pa nalilinawan na ayaw ko na maging mahalaga,

ayaw ko na maging mahalaga…

Hindi ako antigong salamin na matagal mo nang pag-aari,

na tinitignan mo lang para ipaalala sa sarili mo na maganda ka.

Ayaw ko na maging mahalaga.

Hindi ako telepono mong dududukutin lang sa bulsa,

kapag kailangan mo ng solusyon sa kawalan mo ng koneksyon,

sa mundo mong masyado nang malawak para bigyang atensyon ka pa.

Ayaw ko na maging mahalaga.

Hindi ako kwintas na isusuot mo lang sa piling-piling mga okasyon,

kapag mayroong mga sitwasyon na pakiramdam mo ay kulang ka pa.

Hindi ako para ibalik sa loob ng isang kahon

kapag matutulog ka na sa gabi sa takot na masakal ka sa yakap ko kapag mahimbing ka na.

O ibalik sa loob ng kahon at itabi sa sulok ng isang aparador sa takot na manakaw ako ng iba.

Ayaw ko na maging mahalaga..

Ang gusto ko…

ay mahalin.

Ang kailangan ko…

ay mahalin.

Kailangan ko na mahalin mo ako gaya ng kape mo sa umaga,

tanggap ang tamis at pait,

kailangan para sa init pero hindi isinasantabi dahil lang nanlamig na.

Kailangan ko na mahalin mo ako gaya ng sarili mong opisina.

Kabisado kung para saan ang ano

kabisado kung nasaan nakatago ang alin.

Kabisado ang mga itinatago kong patalim, silbi, dumi, lihim..

patalim… silbi… dumi… lihim!

Kailangan ko na mahalin mo ako gaya ng unan mo sa gabi.

Niyayakap sa ginaw,

sinasandalan kahit na mainit,

binubulungan ng mga pinakatatago mong panaginip.

Ayaw ko na maging mahalaga…

Ang kailangan ko ay mahalin…

At nagsulat ako noon hanggang sa mahalin mo..

Kaya patawad pero magsusulat ako hanggang sa maubos ko ang lahat ng salita,

na posibleng tugma ng pangalan mo.

Patawad. Pero magsusulat ako, para patawarin mo.

Dahil minsan may nakapagsabi sa akin na ang hindi raw marunong magpatawad, ay hindi makapagsusulat.

Kaya mahal sa pagkakataong ito, sa huling pagkakataon na magsusulat ako ng tula para sa ‘yo,

gumawa tayo ng kasunduan…

Patatawarin kita, pero patatawarin mo rin ako.

Patawarin mo ako sa hindi ko pagtahan, at patatawarin kita, sa hindi mo pagluha.

Patawarin mo ako sa hindi ko pananahimik, at patatawarin kita, sa hindi mo pagsasalita.

Patawarin mo ako sa hindi ko pag-alis, at patatawarin kita, sa hindi mo pananatili.

Patawarin mo ako sa hindi ko sa ‘yo paglimot, at patatawarin kita, sa hindi mo sa akin pagpili, mahal.

Gumawa tayo ng kasunduan: Patatawarin kita, pero patatawarin mo rin ako.

Patawarin mo ako sa hindi ko pagbitiw at patatawarin kita, sa hindi mo pagkapit.

Patawarin mo ako sa hindi ko paglayo at patatawarin kita, sa hindi mo paglapit.

Patawarin mo ako sa hindi ko pagsuko, at patatawarin kita, sa hindi mo pagsugal.

At patawarin mo ako sa hindi ko pagkamuhi sa ‘yo, at patatawarin kita, sa hindi mo sa akin

pagmamahal, mahal.

Gumawa tayo ng kasunduan: Patatawarin kita, pero patatawarin mo rin ako.

Para sa wakas ay matapos ko na itong tula, na masyado nang matagal nang nakatira dito.

At patawad… kung magiging masyadong mahaba, at maraming masyadong boladas.

Pero pangako: huli na ‘to… huli na ‘to… huli na ‘to…

Magsisimula ako uli sa umpisa,

sa kung paanong nginitian mo ako at tinanong kung saan ako nakatira…

Magsisimula ako uli sa umpisa, sa kung paanong nginitian mo ako…

Magsisimula ako uli sa umpisa…

Magsisimula ako uli…

Magsisimula ako…

Ito na ang huling tula na isusulat ko para sa ‘yo…

Mali!!!

Ito na ang huling tula na isinulat ko tungkol sa ‘yo…

T**g *na mo!

Tapos na ako…

Dylan Thomas finished this poem, a

villanelle, in 1951, and sent it off to an
editor friend of a magazine, together with a
note which read:

“The only person I can’t show the little

enclosed poem to is, of course, my father,
who doesn’t know he’s dying”

He also remarked to his friend, American

Robert J. Gibson, that the spark for the
poem was his father's approaching
blindness. Thomas's father was to pass
away a year later and the poet himself
succumbed to illness and died in 1953.

When Dylan Thomas was a child his father

would read Shakespeare and nursery
rhymes to him and the dreamy, sensitive
Welsh boy absorbed the sounds and music
of the texts at an early age.

Their relationship was complex but loving.

Dylan Thomas respected his father, a senior master of English, but was no academic at school, and left without
furthering his education at university. The young Dylan wanted to publish his poems and go one better than his
father, himself a frustrated, never published poet.

So Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night is a poem that meant a lot to Dylan Thomas, who wanted to see his
father face death in a blaze of defiance.

Dylan Thomas wrote many crafted, musical poems during his turbulent and boozy life as a romantic poet. His
love of sound and his subject matter - religion, death, sin, redemption, love, the nature of the universe, the
processes of time - helped create uniquely memorable poetry.
Villanelle: Poetic Form
The highly structured villanelle is a nineteen-line poem with two repeating rhymes and two refrains. The form is
made up of five tercets followed by a quatrain. The first and third lines of the opening tercet are repeated
alternately in the last lines of the succeeding stanzas; then in the final stanza, the refrain serves as the poem’s
two concluding lines. Using capitals for the refrains and lowercase letters for the rhymes, the form could be
expressed as: A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2.

Strange as it may seem for a poem with such a rigid rhyme scheme, the villanelle did not start off as a fixed
form. During the Renaissance, the villanella and villancico (from the Italian villano, or peasant) were Italian
and Spanish dance-songs. French poets who called their poems “villanelle” did not follow any specific schemes,
rhymes, or refrains. Rather, the title implied that, like the Italian and Spanish dance-songs, their poems spoke of
simple, often pastoral or rustic themes.

While some scholars believe that the form as we know it today has been in existence since the sixteenth century,
others argue that only one Renaissance poem was ever written in that manner—Jean Passerat’s “Villanelle," or
“J’ay perdu ma tourterelle”—and that it wasn’t until the late nineteenth century that the villanelle was defined
as a fixed form by French poet Théodore de Banville.

Regardless of its provenance, the form did not catch on in France, but it has become increasingly popular
among poets writing in English. An excellent example of the form is Dylan Thomas’s “Do not go gentle into
that good night”:

Contemporary poets have not limited themselves to the pastoral themes originally expressed by the free-form
villanelles of the Renaissance, and have loosened the fixed form to allow variations on the refrains. Elizabeth
Bishop’s “One Art” is another well-known example; other poets who have penned villanelles include W. H.
Auden, Oscar Wilde, Seamus Heaney, David Shapiro, and Sylvia Plath.

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/villanelle-poetic-form
 Understanding Neruda's Poem Tonight I
Can Write

Chilean Nobel Prize winning writer Pablo

Neruda was one of the most popular and prolific
poets during the twentieth century. In 'Tonight I
Can Write,' Neruda focuses on a lost love. The
speaker longs for a love once had and idealizes
the passion that was felt. Translated by American
Poet Laureate W. S. Merwin, this poem exudes
youthful melancholy and has a rhythmic flow
due to the use of repetition (repeating a word,
phrase, or line within a poem). Identify the
phrases that are repeated in this poem and notice
how more meaning is added to those words as
they are used in different ways.

Poem Summary
Lines 1–4

The theme of distance is introduced in the

opening line. When the speaker informs the
reader,

“Tonight I can write the saddest lines,” he

suggests that he could not previously. We later
learn that his overwhelming sorrow over a lost
lover has prevented him from writing about their
relationship and its demise. The speaker’s
constant juxtaposition of past and present
illustrate his inability to come to terms with his
present isolated state. Neruda’s language here, as in the rest of the poem, is simple and to the point, suggesting
the sincerity of the speaker’s emotions. The sense of distance is again addressed in the second and third lines as
he notes the stars shivering “in the distance.” These lines also contain images of nature, which will become a
central link to his memories and to his present state. The speaker contemplates the natural world, focusing on
those aspects of it that remind him of his lost love and the cosmic nature of their relationship. He begins writing
at night, a time when darkness will match his mood. The night sky filled with stars offers him no comfort since
they “are blue and shiver.” Their distance from him reinforces the fact that he is alone. However, he can
appreciate the night wind that “sings” as his verses will, describing the woman he loved.

Lines 5–10

Neruda repeats the first line in the fifth and follows it with a declaration of the speaker’s love for an unnamed
woman. The staggered repetitions Neruda employs throughout the poem provide thematic unity. The speaker
introduces the first detail of their relationship and points to a possible reason for its demise when he admits
“sometimes she loved me too.” He then reminisces about being with her in “nights like this one.” The
juxtaposition of nights from the past with this night reveals the change that has taken place, reinforcing his
sense of aloneness. In this section, Neruda links the speaker’s lover with nature, a technique he will use
throughout the poem to describe the sensual nature of their relationship. In the eighth line, the speaker
remembers kissing his love “again and again under the endless sky”—a sky as endless as, he had hoped, their
relationship would be. An ironic reversal of line six occurs in line nine when the speaker states, “She loved me,
sometimes I loved her too.” The speaker may be offering a cynical statement of the fickle nature of love at this
point. However, the eloquent, bittersweet lines that follow suggest that in this line he is trying to distance
himself from the memory of his love for her and so ease his suffering. Immediately, in the next line he
contradicts himself when he admits, “How could one not have loved her great still eyes.” The poem’s
contradictions create a tension that reflects the speaker’s desperate attempts to forget the past.

Lines 11–14

In line eleven Neruda again repeats his opening line, which becomes a plaintive refrain. The repetition of that
line shows how the speaker is struggling to maintain distance, to convince himself that enough time has passed
for him to have the strength to think about his lost love. But these lines are “the saddest.” He cannot yet escape
the pain of remembering. It becomes almost unbearable “to think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost
her.” His loneliness is reinforced by “the immense night, still more immense without her.” Yet the poetry that
he creates helps replenish his soul, “like dew to the pasture.”

Lines 15–18

In line fifteen the speaker refuses to analyze their relationship. What is important to him is that “the night is
starry and she is not with me” as she used to be on similar starry nights. “This is all” that is now central to him.
When the speaker hears someone singing in the distance and repeats “in the distance,” he reinforces the fact that
he is alone. No one is singing to him. As a result, he admits “my soul is not satisfied.”

Lines 19–26

In these lines the speaker expresses his longing to reunite with his love. His sight and his heart try to find her,
but he notes, “she is not with me.” He again remembers that this night is so similar to the ones they shared
together. Yet he understands that they “are no longer the same.” He declares that he no longer loves her, “that’s
certain,” in an effort to relieve his pain, and admits he loved her greatly in the past. Again linking their
relationship to nature, he explains that he had “tried to find the wind to touch her hearing” but failed. Now he
must face the fact that “she will be another’s.” He remembers her “bright” body that he knows will be touched
by another and her “infinite eyes” that will look upon a new lover.

Lines 27–32

The speaker reiterates, “I no longer love her, that’s certain,” but immediately contradicts himself, uncovering
his efforts at self deception when he admits, “but maybe I love her.” With a world-weary tone of resignation, he
concludes, “love is so short, forgetting is so long.” His poem has become a painful exercise in forgetting. In line
twenty-nine he explains that because this night is so similar to the nights in his memory when he held her in his
arms, he cannot forget. Thus he repeats, “my soul is not satisfied.” In the final two lines, however, the speaker is
determined to erase the memory of her and so ease his pain, insisting that his verses (this poem) will be “the last
verses that I write for her.”

Themes
Memory and Reminiscence

“Tonight I Can Write” is a poem about memories of a lost love and the pain they can cause. Throughout the
poem the speaker recalls the details of a relationship that is now broken. He continually juxtaposes images of
the passion he felt for the woman he loved with the loneliness he experiences in the present. He is now at some
distance from the relationship and so acknowledges, “tonight I can write the saddest lines,” suggesting that the
pain he suffered after losing his lover had previously prevented any reminiscences or descriptions of it. While
the pain he experienced had blocked his creative energies in the past, he is now able to write about their
relationship and find some comfort in “the verse [that] falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.”

Love and Passion

Throughout the poem, the speaker expresses his great love for a woman with whom he had a passionate
romance. He remembers physical details: “her great still eyes,” “her voice, her bright body,” “her infinite eyes.”
He also remembers kissing her “again and again under the endless sky” admitting “how I loved her.” His love
for her is still evident even though he states twice “I no longer love her.”

Look Up, Look Down - Poem by Donna Dolorical

And all the good are dead,
Smiling from behind the veil
I can still see in their ghost eyes
The old shimmer of a twinkle
And they call out to me
With voices like chocolate,
Downy eyelashes that shake
The very foundation of me
I wish I could talk to them
Ask a question or two
I'd care not if they answer in riddles
Deathly vagueness shall do
But look now, they're crying
'We weren't made sunbeams'
I shout back, 'that's ridiculous,
'watch how I drown in the Shining! '